When I write about my son, I realize his story is not unique. Many others; parents, loved ones and those friends left behind to mourn and pick up the pieces of their shattered lives, live as testaments to the terrible reality they must face under horrible and tragic circumstances. Yet, due to the events that had shaped his life, and choices for better and worse, had led Jonathan to that fateful place at that fateful time, I believe his story is worth the telling and in doing so, hopefully, it will clarify issues parents, with children brought up in a Christian environment may confront when events beyond our control, tear us from our loved ones and rip open a hole in the fabric of our lives.
Jonathan McKay Bowers was born on Saturday September 29, 1979 in Provo, Utah at 8:04 in the morning. This happened to be the same birth date of my brother, Kenneth. From the start, he was not of small physical stature. He came into the world at nine pounds even and approximately 21 inches in length. From there, he would grow to manhood at just under six feet six inches in height and weigh 240 pounds.
From the start, Jonathan liked sports. Perhaps that came from my own insistence on attending the BYU football game after Jonathan was born and my wife's situation had stabilized.
As I recall, BYU bested Texas- El Paso that day by a score of 31-10. When Jonathan was about one year old, we took him to his first BYU football game, though the particulars of the game are lost to my memory.
We decided on the name of Jonathan due to my own name. His middle name came from the name of a fellow student I had known that had the first name of McKay. I liked it and so we used it as his middle name. And to me it seemed a good fit.
We lived in a small trailer court on the south side of town that we rented from my parents. I was going to school and was winding up my bachelor's degree in finance. Jonathan was a welcome addition to Judi and I. Right from the start, he had an even disposition and was a good baby. He fussed little and usually gave us little reason for concern.
I graduated from BYU in the fall of 1980. As we had nowhere to go, her parents who lived in Canada said we could move in with them until we got ourselves situated. We took them up on this offer, packed up our things and headed north.
This move for Judi and I turned out to be a fortuitous decision. Judi was pregnant and while we had medical insurance, we had assumed another normal birth which turned out not to be the case. Unknown to us when we crossed the border, she was pregnant with twin girls, which were born in early March 1981. So, Jonathan's sisters came upon the scene just two months after our move to Regina, Saskatchewan.
Though our income was modest, we managed to save up money to enjoy many family outings, including camping trips among the lakes, forests and plains of British Columbia, Alberta and Saskatchewan.
Saskatchewan is known for bitter winds and winter temperatures that plunge well below 0 Fahrenheit. Being from Mesa, Arizona these temperatures came as a shock to my system, to which I never got used to. But it never seemed to bother Jonathan. Even in the most severe weather, he was happy skating at the rink, playing hockey, and working on his puck handling skills.
Jonathan was deeply involved in scouting. Over the course of about three years, he worked diligently and eventually his efforts paid off. Just shy of his sixteenth birthday, Jonathan achieved his Chief Scout award, which is the Canadian equivalent to the U.S. Eagle Scout.
To get his Chief scout, he had to, among other things, hike so many miles though I don't recall what that was. So he hiked and hiked and hiked. On a few of these occasions, I went with him and these outings were usually in freezing cold. I was in my early forties and these activities didn’t come easy. Hiking in the bush outside of the city (the bush covers land not cleared for farm land, cities or public use) was a nightmare in the best of circumstances. Poison oak and wild rose, along with dozens of other scrub brush species and trees fill the countryside and hamper our progress. The wild rose was particularly bad. The thorns tear at your clothes and skin. But as usual, Jonathan took most of this in stride. The only one who seemed to be complaining was me.
One such outing, we were dropped off near the Queen Elizabeth power plant on the outskirts of Saskatoon, near the South Saskatchewan River. It was late dusk with little day light left. Close by, the city lights were clearly visible. We hiked to the South Saskatchewan Rriver's edge and plunged into the bush. We were only about a mile from the city, yet in the bush it is virtually pitch black. Almost instantly I was completely disoriented. I, like others were crawling along the ground on my hands and knees in a futile attempt to make headway against the thorns and undergrowth. Lucky for everyone, I was not in charge. The scoutmaster passed by me, almost at a run, breaking a trail. He, like Jonathan did not seem to be affected by the thorns or the cold temperatures.
In the dark, we passed through stretches of farm land. Barns and houses passed like ghosts, silhouetted in moonlight. They vanished almost as soon as they appeared. We walked, saying little, for to do so took to much energy.
In and out of the bush we marched. The moonlight was a welcome gift when we had it. The passing trees and houses and barns cast eerie shadows on the ground that moved as we passed. Of course it was us that were moving but at the time I was simply too tired to even think about this. Still, when we break into a clearing the scenery was breathtaking. But my whole body ached. I was exhausted and simply wanted to stop and sleep.
The exposed skin on my arms and hands and face feel raw from the thorns and bush. It was early February, and it is below freezing. It could’ve been far worse. The temperature was well above normal for that time of year.
Sometime around midnight we stopped and camped near the river bank. The ground was semi-frozen and covered with frozen dew. We ate little, spread our tarps out, spread out our blankets and crawled into our sleeping bags. I, like about everyone else slept fully clothed. I brought only a summer sleeping bag, and I quickly learned what that meant. It was a miserable night. I spent the night freezing, shivering.
The next day was much better. The sun broke through the mist that formed along the river. The river was frozen over and someone suggested we move along the river to save time. Someone else nixed this idea and I tended to agree. This was all new to me but in my frozen numbed mind even I could see the danger of moving along the river ice.
We moved out over land and soon we came across a country highway. We hiked along the road for a couple of miles, then back we went into the bush. More farmland, trees, and wild rose. As bad as it was, at least there were no bugs. (In a later overnighter in summertime with some scouts, the bishop offered his land as a place for a campsite. But the wasps, bees and a zillion other bugs filled the air in swarms. Instead, we went to a campsite at a Provincial campground. I was in charge then.( Occasionally, I do make the right decisions.)
Sometime in late afternoon, we reached Camp Seewahnee. (I’m not sure about the spelling but I believe it’s close.) It is a scout campground, and I was sooo grateful the hard part was over. We set camp, built a fire and ate. We stayed up long enough to play a game or two, then to the sleeping bags and welcome sleep.
The next day was Sunday. The camp was closed but we picked a small clearing with logs spread across the ground for sitting. We had a short Sacrament meeting. The scout leaders gave short gospel talks and bore their testimonies. Then we broke camp and headed for home.
The following winter we hiked out on Black Strap Reservoir to complete the hiking requirements for a merit badge and for his Chief Scout. A few days before, Jonathan and I went to the reservoir to check out the weather and thickness of the ice. We walked out a ways and dug into the ice down to a depth of several inches. We realized it was frozen solid enough to hike on. It was November and very cold, well below 0 Fahrenheit. In addition, the wind was blowing and the wind chill in winter is always a big concern. I didn't like this one bit and I knew it meant no sleep, exhaustion and hours of walking in the snow and ice in sub - zero conditions. But the gig was on; were going whether I wanted to or not.
The day of the camp, we drove my van to a parking lot across from the planned campsite about three quarters of a mile across a narrow neck of the Black Strap reservoir. The rule was clear. Unless there is an emergency, no one was to go anywhere near the cars for comfort or to get out of the snow. Then two of the cars were used to drive the scouts and equipment to the drop off point near the bridge. The cars were parked by my van and the drivers came across the frozen water and joined us at the campsite.
Once out of the car, we used twine to load and secure our supplies to the toboggans. Then we set out across the frozen lake to the campsite which was about 3 miles to the south. Of course as soon as we load our stuff on the toboggans, the load started to come loose. For starters, how about trying to tie twine with frozen fingers?
The snow was slippery and on lake ice it was even worse. The wind was blowing hard. I was already shivering and begging by some miracle- broken leg or neck, I don't have to go through with it. But Jonathan is there and I couldn’t wimp out.
We headed out on the lake and go a few feet and then the load on the bob sleds starts to come loose and fall off. We constantly have to stop retie and secure the loads. I keep muttering- swearing is more like it- to myself about my plight, seeking some rational justification for volunteering for this insane ordeal.
Of course we have to carry our canteens next to our chests, inside our coats or the water will freeze. This is self - evident even to the not-so-clued in types such as myself. In spite of my best efforts, perhaps because of the constant jiggling, there is some leakage which leads to further discomfort as water is subject to the laws of gravity and slowly seeped down the inside of my woolen shirt.
The idea was to avoid sweating when hiking in such severe conditions. Water decreases the thermal protection of clothing and can lower body temperature. I got pretty good at this, but still sweat broke out across my brow. Slugging through the snow in such conditions was a nightmare at the best of times. As I was the only 'leader' with the scouts at that time and the ordeal was far from over when we reached camp a couple of hours later. In fact it was only just beginning.
We reached camp and immediately began to build snow huts or Quinzhees. They consist of nothing more than mounds of snow piled about seven- eight feet high and then left to set for a few hours. Then sticks- branches about 10-12 inches long are stuck into the mounds at given intervals and left in until the mounds settle sufficiently to hollow out.
The Quinzhees were hollowed with someone using a shovel dressed in a snow suit for adequate protection against the snow. Once the snow was cleared to the length of the sticks, the sticks were removed to allow for air circulation inside the huts, yet allow for good thermal protection against outside temperatures and wind chill. The floor of the hut was then lined with cat tail stems and leaves A sleeping bag was laid on the leaves to soften the floor and protect the sleeping bags against moisture accumulation by creating air flow beneath the body.
After supper and clean up Jonathan and I stretched out our bags in the Quinzhee and tried to sleep. I realized we made the entrance too big and too much cold air entered the hut. We froze any way. My sleeping bag was this time made for such cold temperatures but I spent both nights tossing and turning, trying in vain to find a position where my skin was not exposed to any tiny holes in the bag where jets of cold air irritate and froze the skin. .
By morning, I felt miserable but tried to hide my feelings and make the most of it. Jonathan, however; seemed to take this all in stride and seemed to be enjoying himself or at least not hating it.
The second day consisted of long hikes and lots of burnt or uncooked food. Most of it was wasted and had to be dumped in the fire. Some of it however made it to our stomachs and we didn't throw up or get sick. So, I supposed this was a good sign. Another good sign in hindsight was that the fire was built on lake ice. The ice was so thick and the melted water froze overnight, so the fire didn't sink into the lake.
Smart. Very smart.
Cleaning utensils and dinner ware was a bit tricky when the temperature was so cold. True, we boiled water, heating it enough to kill the germs. If one wasn't careful, the metal dinner ware would freeze to the skin if left out for any length of time and touched with wet hands. This was followed by extreme discomfort of prying the dinner ware from one's hand and the risk of peeling skin was ever present, if one was not careful.
In the early afternoon, however; a couple of scouts did come down sick. So, they packed it off and went back toward the Blackstrap ski hill, to the north to catch a ride home. One of the scout leaders left about the same time, but the reasons escape me; probably to accompany the sick scouts back to safe harbor but I'm not sure.
By the end of the second day, all that were left were Jonathan, a handful of other scouts and one other scout leader and my Aerostar parked on the far side of the lake.
By the morning of the third day, all of us were freezing, hungry and exhausted. We discussed staying another night to satisfy the requirements for another merit badge but that idea went nowhere. So, we broke camp, loaded up our stuff and headed for the van. Jonathan headed out ahead and asked me for the keys to the Aerostar. I consented and brought up the rear with the other scout leader.
Trudging through the snow with the bobsled in tow I put one foot in front of the other, too tired to look to the right or left. I just kept my head down, looking up only to keep my bearings as I dragged my living corpse the last three quarters of a mile back to the van.
About two thirds of the way across, I noticed a bluish object partially covered in the snow, directly beneath my line of sight, that seemed out of place. I stooped over and brushed away the snow.
A clear plastic bubble appeared, that was attached to a blue leather strap. Beneath the bubble the word “FORD” appeared in smooth hand-written script.
A few minutes later, Jonathan returned, his eyes wet. He had been crying. He apologized for losing the keys to the only known car for miles. Slowly I reached down, pulled the keys from my pocket and dangled them in front of his eyes.
Many years later, I think of that trip, and thank God for small miracles. For a peaceful ride home and the warmth of my son's friendship forged from such experiences.
Jonathan experienced many of the things normal to growing up in a typical North American community. Scouting, paper routes, playing a musical instrument- trombone- in a high school band, high school football player, learning to play the piano, skiing, family summer vacations.
He was not one to seek attention or praise for his endeavors. Physically, he was very strong, and had the capacity to work long hard hours.
I remember his morning paper route. He would get up around 5-5:30, pick up the papers that were left at the front door of our apartment, load them into paper bags strapped over his shoulders (a bicycle was simply not practical in the winter snows) and walk into the dark, freezing winter mornings. These bags were not light and my best guess, weighed from 50 to 75 lbs.
Sometimes, I helped him with his paper route but of course I took the car. Once, when I did the route, I got up late. Hurrying to finish the route before I had to go to work, I stepped out of the car and forgot to put it in park. The car took off. There were cars parked on both sides of the street, and the street is caked with ice. Fortunately the ice was rutted and the ruts ran down the middle of the street. I was slipping and running after the car in my snow boots, hoping, praying it would stay in the middle of the street. After about 100 feet, I jumped in the open car door and slammed on the brakes.
Somewhere in his 'career' as a paper boy Jonathan turned sixteen. More and more he took the car to deliver the papers. I groused about this but said nothing. Perhaps it was selfish of me and Jonathan was a good driver. But the road ice bothered me. Even the best drivers have difficulty on icy roads. Fender benders are all too common on Saskatoon streets in the winter. (We had moved from Regina to Saskatoon just before Jonathan entered the second grade.)
In high school, Jonathan played football for Aden Bowman High. He also spent many winter days outside in the harsh frigid cold playing hockey at the local outside rinks. During the summer, he worked, delivering papers, working odd jobs. Jonathan and I spent many evenings playing baseball.
Jonathan graduated from High School in June, 1998. After High School, he worked for a year to save money for a church mission.
We brought Jonathan down to the mission home in Provo, Utah in the summer of 1999. He had been called to the Montreal, Canada mission. He spent eight weeks in the mission home to prepare him to serve in French speaking Quebec.
After his mission, Jonathan returned to Utah and enrolled in school at the Salt Lake Community College. After one semester he transferred to the University of Utah. He worked full and part time for many years with Gold Cross Ambulance until his passing in May of 2011.
He was planning to finish his studies and graduate that summer.
I had the good fortune to be able to spend a lot of time with Jonathan in the years after his mission. We skied, played baseball, camped together as a family, enjoyed fishing, shooting. Yet
the last few years, I began to feel the urgent need for Jonathan to move on and make his own way. I want so much for Jonathan to move out and be on his own, learn to be his own man. He was at a dead end living with us and it bothered me he seemed to prefer just to keep it that way. Sometimes, when he would come to me, I would give him the cold shoulder. I wanted to gently urge him to think about moving on without having an outright confrontation concerning the matter.
I am and always will be ashamed of this behavior on my part. In hindsight it was of course the wrong thing to do and I can only hope my son will forgive me when we meet again.
And I do believe we will meet again.
Jonathan was an honorable man but he had his faults and issues the same as anyone else. He was a kind gentle soul, who loved kids, especially his niece and nephew. He honored his parents and was dearly loved by his parents, sisters, cousins and grandparents. He was well respected by his friends and those who knew and worked with him.
He loved sports, especially BYU football and hockey. He was a walking encyclopedia when it came to sports; particularly hockey, football and baseball. He was very much looking forward to the upcoming BYU football schedule, since they had gone independent.
For more than 31 years, it was our honor to rub shoulders with our kind, decent, gentle son; to be his friend and to be his parents.
If I had known years ago how well Jonathan would turn out, I would have had many more like him and not complained a bit.
Oh Jonathan, our dear, sweet, beloved son. Why did you have to did you have to die so young?
So young…
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Circa 1985- We were living on Bothwell Crescent in Regina, Saskatchewan. Our home bordered an old city dump ground that had been covered with dirt, planted over with grass and converted into a city park. There were lots of hills for toboggans, sleds and kids, in the winter and flat open spaces for softball in the summer. Jonathan took to the toboggan like fish to water. He loved the outdoors and that love stayed with him all of his life.
One night at home on Bothwell I heard singing coming from one of the bedrooms. I approached the door and peered in. Jonathan had an old Walt Disney song book out and was trying to lead Pete and Sam in the song “Supercalafragalisticexpealadoshis..”
One Saturday in the summertime, while still living on Bothwell , Jonathan was riding his bike and was hit by a car. He flipped over the car and landed on his head. Other than scrapes and bruises, he appeared ok. The following day, Judi called me at church from home. Jonathan started throwing up. I came home and we took him to the hospital. The doctors could find nothing wrong. They told us to take him home and keep an eye on him. We were very relieved. In the days that passed there were no other symptoms of further damage.
He also started trombone lessons. He played for the Lions city band for about four months but it was too expensive. So we switched to the Royal Conservatory. He used to sit at our piano and play with the sheet music on the piano music stand. He scarred the front of the piano with the long slide. For five years we fought with him to learn the instrument. This one thing I regret. I played the trombone as a kid and figured it was as good as any place to start. Jonathan figured other- wise. Eventually, he taught himself to play the piano. He was pretty good at it and sometimes played in church meetings, though he disliked playing in public.
In late April, 2010, we moved into our new home in West Jordan from West Valley, about five miles distant. We had a cat named Lacey. She had been with us for about nine years. All of us loved the cat and grew very fond of her. Soon after we moved, however, we found out that Lacey has throat cancer. Except for pain killers there was little we could do. One day, in late June, Jonathan, Judi, and I took Lacy to the hospital and had her put to sleep. We put her in a box and Jonathan and his cousin Natalie buried her in the back yard. Jonathan cried as he did this. Judi and I were also broken up and shed tears. This for me is highly unusual. I have never been attached to a pet like I was to Lacy. At some point after putting her down, I said something out loud to Jonathan and my wife to the effect that as traumatic as Lace's death was, I couldn't guess how awful it would be to lose one of my children.
Circa 1993-94 One of many summer vacations, this one to Takakkaw falls in Yoho National Park, British Columbia. The falls were spectacular and fell over a thousand feet down the face of a rock wall. Jonathan stood on a boulder near the falls and with the water mist blowing around him, made a funny face which I caught in a still photo.
On another trip to the falls, I jumped across two outcroppings of rock. Beneath me the water from the falls flowed through a narrows formed by the rock outcroppings. The rocks were slippery and I found I could not return from the way I came. I wandered to a place downstream where the river widened and I crossed there. But the river was still waist deep and running fast. The water was ice cold, and the bottom was slippery and my runners had little grip. The kids were embarrassed, laughing and pointing. And other vacationers are laughing, pointing and snapping photos. I had a BYU sweater on.
I have a tendency to make a fool of myself, especially on family outings. Sometimes I bribe the girls to sing a silly song in a restaurant or some other public place. Sometimes they took me up on it, most times, not so much. Gradually, I increased the bribe to simply get a reaction. Jonathan took all of this in stride and acted like it was great fun. But he was also protective of his sisters and made it known when he thought I had gone too far.
I wanted the kids to remember these vacations, and fun we had, even when Dad made a fool of himself.
And I wanted them to remember that too. In the years that came, these times returned in conversations with my wife and kids. In spite of our modest standard of living, there are lots of fond memories of those times. When they entered high School, the trips nearly stopped. I regretted this and wish we had done more together.
On another trip to Duck Mountain and Riding Mountain provincial parks we camped. The scenery was stunningly beautiful. The kids entertained themselves by feeding the ground squirrels marshmellows.
In a much earlier event, Jonathan was taking a bath. I filled his hair with soap and formed thehair into a kind of mohawk and took a picture. We have the picture along with many others in family photo albums. Some day when the pain has eased I will look at them again. But not now. Not anytime soon.
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A couple of weeks before Jonathan's accident, Jonathan removed a huge pine bush in the back yard. I appreciated his efforts. It was increasingly difficult for me to do such work. It was one of the reasons why we had to move from our last home. The root bundle was huge and we had to hack off the roots with a saw to make the bundle fit into the green trash bin. I helped him the best I can. The job was completed over several days. We wanted to put a tool shed at the same spot. But since Jonathan is gone, we just wanted to sell the house and move. It is too painful to stay. So the shed will not be built.
Any way, we might plant a tree instead and call it the “Jonathan tree.” I am not convinced this is a good idea. That would remind us of our son. And bring more pain.
We were living at Gladmer Park in Regina, Saskatchewan, circa 1984. Jonathan was about 5 years old. These were old army barracks that had been converted into apartments. The rent was cheap, and that was reflected in the accommodations. The word 'Spartan' came to mind. Serviceable but Spartan. One day, the kids decided to play house. As usual, Jonathan played the father. Samantha played the mother, and Petra was the son. But this time, Petra started griping. She was tired of being the son, and wants to play someone else.
Jonathan piped up. “Ok Petra. Then you can be the chicken!”
On Sangster Boulevard in Regina, a few years later, about 1986. The apartment block backed on to an elementary school ground. One day, Jonathan Petra and Samantha marched off to school. The three of them were together, the girls flanking Jonathan on each side. His arms were around the girl’s shoulders, as they walked together, as one would do with the best of friends. I was also struck that Jonathan was acting like an older brother, a protector.
**
Alsask, Saskatchewan Circa 1989
Alsask is a small- run down community on the border of Alberta and Saskatchewan. Nearby was an old radar dome, remnants of the Canadian Forces Pine Tree Line. We made frequent visits from Saskatoon to the trailer park, where for a short time, my wife's parents lived.
There was a golf course. Jonathan and I spent many days on the course, walking the dusty sand filled fairway, I complained the golf course had it backwards. Most of the fairways were little more than one long sand trap after another, with little tufts of green sprouting through the sand and parched cracked ground. The only water hazard was a bog filled with overgrown weeds, and smelly trapped runoff from very infrequent rains. The bog was not very large. Even so, I managed to land more than one ball in the muck.
The only part of the golf course that seemed to get any attention were some, but not all of the putting greens.
But the ground was hard and uneven. There are ground squirrels everywhere, and their holes are dug into the fairways and putting greens. And these holes burrowed in the fairways are the biggest hazard of all. We keep watch as we walk together along the greens and fairways. Nobody wants to walk home with a sprained ankle. Jonathan seems to take all this in without much complaint. The dust and heat don't seem to bother him
In these games, there was no par, no handicap, and for the most part, score was not kept. But that was not the reason I played. Jonathan learned how to swing the club with pretty good results in spite of the teacher (me). Most of my swings resulted in hooks and slices, when I actually manage to hit the ball.
Most of the time, Jonathan managed to best me on the course, notwithstanding his youth.
On at least one occasion we walked several miles along the back roads and perimeter service road of the golf course. This is a necessity for the hiking requirements for scouting. We carried a lunch and at one point we stopped and ate. There was a light breeze. The day was not too hot, and we found a small log on which to sit. I don't remember much about the hike except it was long and dusty but not too hot. And I was with my son. That reason and that reason alone, made the time spent on such activities well worth it.
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Three Sisters campground summer 1988.
We had been camping for a couple of weeks. I recently graduated from The Saskatoon Institute of Applied Arts and Sciences. We are traveling and camping in Alberta as I visited various sites and businesses, looking for work. The campground was near the east entrance to Banff National Park. After we parked and set up camp, I told Jonathan and his sisters to take the watermelon and place it in a shallow part of a nearby stream to cool. Instead, they go to the bridge and drop it into deep water. It rolled among the rocks and came to rest in a nearby shallow pool. I grabbed the melon and told Jonathan and Petra to take it to a potable water fountain and wash off the dirt.
A short time before this, someone moved into the next camping spot and set up camp. They had a big dog. They were walking down the trail connecting the camp sites when they encountered Petra and Jonathan. From beyond eye sight we heard a blood curling scream. Petra and Jonathan returned and told us about the dog and that Petra had thrown the melon into the air when she saw the dog coming near her. The melon landed on the ground and broke into pieces.
I told Jonathan to go back, pick up the pieces and throw them in the garbage. A while later, Jonathan returns with watermelon juice smeared on his cheeks and mouth. Carrying some dripping pieces in his hands he looked up at me and said, “ that was really good, Dad.”
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We were in the mission home in Provo, Utah saying farewell to our son. It was mid- June, 1999 almost twelve years ago. There is a farewell meeting, and after it is over, we watch Jonathan file out with the other missionaries. He was going to the Montreal, Canada mission. He had reached his full stature and was a very handsome young man.
Two months later, I saw Jonathan off at the Salt Lake airport. Sam and I hugged Jonathan, expressed our love and wished him well. We watched as he disappeared down the loading dock ramp toward the plane door.
Both occasions were heart rending, and I prayed he would be kept in God's safe keeping.
On the return trip from Provo to Salt Lake, I felt a deep ache in my chest for my son. I would miss him terribly, but I knew we would meet again in two years.
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Queen Elizabeth Elementary School playground. Saskatoon circa summer 1995.
The school was where Jonathan graduated from eighth grade. It was only about a block from Gladmer Park. It is one of many outings. Father and son playing catch. I would hit the ball for a while, then we switched. We would play for about an hour then go home. Every summer we lived there, and we went out into the late afternoons and did this almost every day. I didn't mind doing it most of the time. I liked being with my son. But I wished he had more friends. I think he would have had lots more fun. I was no spring chicken and my bones creaked a lot. Chasing fly balls and grounders wasn’t nearly as easy as it was twenty years ago and it wasn't easy then.
Elementary school was not easy for my kids, especially Jonathan. He was picked on a lot. There were a lot of bullies. I didn’t find out about this until years later, and I felt guilty about it. Many times, Samantha and Jonathan, unknown to Judi and I, ditched school and stayed home. Of course, Jonathan and Samantha and mother didn't tell me about this until much later.
Perhaps the bullying came on because of Jonathan's gentle nature. A gentle giant. Being gentle is for some a sign of weakness.
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I used to think it was funny watching people get drunk, swaying, cussing, stumbling, their voices slurred, especially on TV and in the movies. Not anymore.
Yelling, puking, parents screaming and fighting. Families broken up, more screaming, tires screeching, glass shattering. Flesh and bone being ripped and crushed by glass and metal shards. Bodies ejected through windows, burning, disfigured, maimed for life. Blood. Death.
Jonathan.
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A year ago we were in Provo. Me, Judi, and Jonathan visiting my mother and father's grave. We took photos. It was memorial day, 2010. Jonathan is shown in the photograph wearing an orange polo shirt with white stripes.
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Tomorrow, is June 27th, 2011, Samantha's second wedding anniversary. After the wedding, Jonathan was horsing around with Jared, Petra's second child. He was holding Jared upside down in his arms. They were in front of the Denver Temple, dressed in Sunday suits. He was threatening to throw Jared in the pool. They were both laughing. Someone snapped a photo.
Happier times.
Yesterday it was three weeks since we buried Jonathan. Today, Sunday, we went to Provo and visited Jonathan's grave. We will be in Colorado on the fourth of July so we planted two small American flags, one at each end. Soon, we must get a headstone, but it had to be a flat one because the grave was so close to the lane.
A man behind us was visiting his father's grave. His father died the day before Jonathan, and was buried on the same day. He was 71. Since I have sprained my knee and am hobbling around, he offered me a collapsible chair. I borrowed a wooden bucket from the man and poured water on the sod growing over Jonathan's grave. Soon, it will blend in with the rest of the grass and it will be more difficult to find Jonathan's grave on sight. I thought to measure out the distance from a hose bib nearby, but I didn't bring a tape measure.
Minutes, hours, days, weeks, feet, speed. Seconds until impact. Counting, and more counting.
Before we left, Judi and I said a prayer. As a couple, over the years, we have prayed many times together. But recently, the prayers have been a little unusual. We asked God to part the veil so we can see our Jonathan one last time. To give us a chance to say goodbye.
As I prayed, Judi was standing next to me. I was sitting with my sprained leg stuck out almost straight in front of me. We were both sobbing and it was difficult to get the words out. We were crying on the way down, but this was much worse.
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Provo, circa 1980
My wife, myself and Jonathan were sitting in our ’71 Monte Carlo parked at a drive up fast food restaurant, somewhere on 5th west in Provo. Jonathan was sitting on my lap. He was wearing a pajama sleeper, tan with prints of some unremembered figures on cotton fabric. He was grabbing at the dashboard knobs, and he was very animated. It was cute to watch him get so excited as he reached for the knobs and tried with his small fingers to pull and turn them. I supposed he saw me use them and he thought they were something to play with.
A few months later, we were moving from the house my parents bought on south 5th west. My brother was moving in once we left. I have graduated from BYU and we were going to Canada. The front screen door had been removed to move furniture in. We are working in the back hallway when Jonathan walks in. Right in front of us, he trips and falls on his back. His mouth pops open. Jonathan started crying. He was only fifteen months old. At the back of his mouth were two large wooden screws. Wooden screws that had been removed when the front screen door was taken off. My sister in law quickly turned Jonathan upside down and used her finger to remove the screws.
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